


What Was Paid For With Tears And Blood

by SenTheSeventh



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Arm-tearing as a perfectly fine form of therapy, Background Dante/Vergil if you squint, Incest, M/M, Mild Gore, Parent/Child Incest, The Sparda are great at feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-25 19:57:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20031490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenTheSeventh/pseuds/SenTheSeventh
Summary: It is not love, he thinks, for demons do not love. V could, in acid-like longings that burned him to the core. Vergil –Vergil is half-devil. He does not feel that kind of thing. Dante is the human one, the one who cries and advertises it. Vergil is, as Nero has so eloquently put it, a "cold bastard."





	What Was Paid For With Tears And Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Wrangled into shape, as usual, by the awesome [Sootandshadow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sootandshadow). Do you want more Vernero? Do you want a hot half-oni AU with gangs of bikers and tatoos and Nero being a cocky brat and excellent porn? [Of course you do.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20023120)
> 
> This is nooot my usual style, but I hope you'll like it anyway. As always, comments or criticisms <s>or free food</s> are welcome! I wish you a lovely day <3

_I – Breaking_

The boy is crying. Real, ugly, human tears, face pressed against his fist, shuddering and shaking with visceral grief. He’s curling into himself, inhaling breaths that hiss with pain, and Vergil stares at him as Dante sits beside him, wraps an arm around his shoulder, and Vergil thinks –

_Ah, yes. I want him_.

_II – Heart worn on his torn sleeve_

“You’re a cold bastard, aren’t you?” Nero growls, fists clenched.

Vergil nods, politely.

It is not love, he thinks, for demons do not love. V could, in acid-like longings that burned him to the core. Vergil –

Vergil is half-devil. He does not feel that kind of thing. Dante is the human one, the one who cries and advertises it. Vergil is, as Nero has so eloquently put it, a “cold bastard.”

His son isn’t. He is lightning and rage, heart worn on his torn sleeve.

A warmhearted fool.

“Are you even fucking listening to me?” Nero shouts, and Vergil’s gaze is unconsciously drawn to his face.

Pale blue eyes that should be reminiscent of his, yet aren’t. Features close to his own, yet the life in them is so different – so human. Dante says that they look alike, where it counts. His brother was always prone to sentimental delusions.

“I am,” Vergil lies.

The fighter in him watches Nero and sees the growing signs of incoming violence – his centre of gravity instinctively lowered to prepare an attack; fingers twitching with the itch to punch something; a minute shifting in his body, in his gaze.

The predator in him watches Nero and sees the damning proofs of his humanity, so wrathful, so raw, yet so hesitant to launch itself at family —bone-deep reluctance in his form, sawing off the edge of his anger.

Nero doesn’t enjoy fighting family – or so he tells himself. It’s the same thing really. The same weakness.

Vergil doesn’t know what to do with his family when he’s not fighting them.

_III – Take it all_

The boy has been living here since his girl broke up with him. Vergil has no objections; the _Devil May Cry _is Dante’s, not his. He’s got a place of his own; he just happens to have a room here, always ready if he decides to drop by.

He drops by often.

For Dante’s library, he thinks. Nothing else.

Nero’s presence presses on his mind, catches his attention; just a little, but _a little _that doesn’t let go. There are things that he cannot do with Dante when Nero is here, but it’s not only about that. It’s never been.

He wants Nero. He wants the tears that flow so freely, translucent trails of emotion that tinge the white of Nero’s eyes with blood-red grief. He wants to drink up the tension, this distress so absolute and vivid that Nero’s body seems reshaped in its image.

This feeling is foreign. When Vergil was a child, shivering with rage and anguish in the ruins of his past life, Vergil had decided he had no place for weakness in his mind. His father was Sparda, and Sparda was a devil, and devils never cried.

He’d crushed it all – the insufferable pain, the regrets and the guilt. And he’d never felt those inanities again. (Not until V.) He’s cold, controlled, and more demon than man.

Nero feels everything, and so strongly. So freely. Its intensity burns Vergil’s skin, Vergil’s mind.

He wants to grab Nero, this face that is close to his and yet so different; he wants to touch his throat, feel it move when Nero screams, he wants to –

Take it all.

_IV – Smash your fucking face_

“You’ve been looking at me.” Nero points an accusing finger at him, tension coiled in the thick curves of his arms and in the firm set of his jaw. He’s slightly smaller and, this close (warmth, anger, humanity, a hellfire searing Vergil’s skin), he has to crane his neck to properly look at his father.

Vergil nods. No point in denying it.

“You got something to say to me?!” Nero pursues hotly, waving wildly in emphasis. “You think I’m weak? That I’m ridiculous to cry so much? Well, _fuck you_!”

His voice is loud, thundering, heavy with a tempest that’s only asking to burst. Vergil’s instincts are screaming at him to react to the aggression.

He wants to say _of course I don’t think so. Feelings can be powerful things. You care so much. It’s because he did, too, that Dante won against Urizen_.

He says, “I don’t care about how you feel.”

The meaning is about the same, yet it’s absolutely different from what he wanted (feared) to express. Vergil has the time for wry despair at his own failings before his son transforms in a blur, growling in a two-fold voice.

“I’m going to smash your fucking face in!”

It took Vergil years to be able to talk in devil shape. Nero, of course, managed it instantly. So human even in demonic anger, his son.

His_._

They fight hand to hand, too close to wield the Yamato. Vergil could use her to create some space, but his brother would complain if he ruined his agency. He’s at a disadvantage and –

He could grab Nero, tear at him, break him to make him _his _–

– distracted. Nero manages to tear at his throat deeply enough that the bleeding briefly offsets him, and then he’s flat on the floor, on his back, his son sitting on his hips.

Ah.

An unfortunate choice of position. Nero has those, sometimes.

Luckily, the boy’s too distracted to notice what undesirable reaction he might feel beneath his seat, and pummels Vergil instead. The smell of blood, _his _blood, soon overwhelms the half-demon’s senses. His body feels destruction and wants to pay it back twofold, devil trigger trembling under his skin, yet he’s in control –

(_Strike back, show this insolent child who’s in charge, **claim him**_ –)

He does not yield to his savage desires, pain and blood familiar both as he fights back instead – not as violently as he would usually, not as viciously as he would with any other, because the beast in his veins growls too loudly and demanding in his mind, and if he loses his grip –

He grabs Nero’s arm and the boy makes a noise that is raw and vulnerable and _afraid _and —

Vergil feels the moment he snaps, razor-sharp predator instincts –

Something cold and metallic tears through Vergil’s face like a hurricane of knives, bringing him back to his senses. Nero shouts and pulls him aside, awkwardly trying to cover him from more projectiles. Foolish boy, attempting to protect the man he was previously fighting.

“Dante! What the fuck?”

Vergil didn’t feel his brother’s presence – a testament to his instincts’ obsessions with Nero.

A weakness.

“Aw, you looked like you were having fun, so I wanted in too! You’re gonna tell me that was a private show?”

There is artfully crafted levity in his brother’s voice, tension hidden and forgotten in the same breath. Vergil knows, still. Just as Dante could recognize his intent when he lunged at Nero.

“You tore off his face!”

Vergil rubs at regenerating flesh, feeling his nose grow back under his palm.

“I probably deserved it,” he states.

“What the fuck? No!”

Vergil tilts his head as he looks at him, perplexed.

“You were pummeling me a moment ago.”

Nero blushes – red, human shame in demon-pale eyes.

Politely, Vergil nods towards Dante in thanks.

_V – Do not break_

“Don’t break the kid,” Dante says.

Smiling, always. Vergil looks at him, restrains reflexive contrariness.

“I don’t intend to.”

“You want to, though.”

“_Intent _and _desire _are two very different things.”

Dante’s smile is bright and wide, his eyes alight with bitterness.

“Tell me about it, brother.”

Vergil stretches his hand out to him. After a while, Dante takes it and pulls him forwards.

That’s permission, then.

_VI – Do it_

Vergil had felt the boy approach, stopping in the doorway as if waiting for an invitation. He doesn’t raise his head from his book, though, until Nero talks – nervousness in his scent, in his voice, tinged with remorse.

“I’m sorry.”

Strange boy, holding on to wounds and violence as if they were worth a second thought. Vergil looks at him curiously, observing the way he sways from one foot to the other like a guilty teenager. So young, still.

“Dante did worse.”

“_And I’m not Dante_.” A growl. Vergil must have struck a nerve.

“I know,” he says, then, “Forgive me.”

He’s not good with excuses. He’s not good with Nero. Dante is half of him, easy to read, to hurt and to get hurt by. The others, Vergil does not care about enough to pay any mind to their opinion.

Nero…

Vergil cares, absurdly.

Surprise crosses Nero’s face, and then his expression softens.

“Thank you. Vergil.”

He stays silent then, looking ill at ease. Vergil stares at him, waiting. His book still lies in his lap, forgotten.

“… I can’t tell what you’re thinking,” Nero blurts out. “V – V was weird already, but you’re even more inexpressive than him, and silent, and… Fuck, if you don’t want anything to do with me, tell me. We’re living together, we’re – just say it! Don’t just look at me!”

“What should I say?”

Nero clenches his fists. “Anything. Everything!”

A few answers are rolling on Vergil’s tongue; he chooses none of them.

“You made a noise when I touched your arm,” he says instead.

This was the least terrible thing to say. From the way Nero tenses and grabs at his limb, though, it is still not optimal.

“Come in,” Vergil adds tiredly. “This is Dante’s place. You don’t need my permission to enter.”

“It’s your room,” Nero argues while crossing the threshold.

“It’s the room Dante lends me when I stay in his home.”

“Come on, it’s the same thing. You’re just being dramatic.” The boy gives him a small smile, tight but sincere. Vergil purses his lips, slightly vexed. It’s not, and he’s not.

“So,” Nero says, stopping in front of Vergil. “My arm, huh...”

Vergil stares at him, waiting, listening to the quickened pulse of his heart.

“Yes.”

He hurt Nero and he barely remembers it; the boy was just an object, a receptacle for the Yamato. He tore off his arm without a second thought.

It took becoming V to understand that the _thing_ he’d savaged was a man.

It took becoming Vergil again to learn that he’d mutilated his own son, too blinded by agony and obsession to recognize his blood. To ask himself why the Yamato was inside another’s arm.

“Touch it,” Nero says resolutely.

Vergil blinks.

“What?”

“Touch my arm.”

His son. A boy of unfortunate position choice and very unfortunate word choice.

“Why?”

“Because I fucking want you to,” Nero growls.

He steps closer, tense, a hint of fear in his body language. Vergil feels his predatory instincts pant with hunger; he restrains them and raises his hand slowly. He touches Nero’s arm as gently as he can, taking in the warmth of his naked skin little by little – fingertips first, brushing them against soft, slightly hairy skin; then closing his fingers on rock-hard muscles, clenched with anticipation; then wrapping his whole hand around Nero’s arm.

The boy is staring intently at him, teeth almost grinding together.

Yes, of course. This is so very reminiscent of Nero’s personal moment of weakness, mutilated and bleeding, deprived of his weapons.

Vergil can understand this. He lets his hand linger, unmoving, and tells himself he’s not feeling this buzzing need in his blood, in his mind, to close it tighter and pull Nero to him. To lick naked skin, to kiss invisible wounds better – to bite at the strong, naked throat that shifts with Nero’s nervous swallowing.

“Now,” Nero says, and chokes. “Now – tear it off.”

“What?” Vergil shuts his mouth sharply, annoyed at the obviousness of his surprise.

“You heard me. I want to know if I can take it now. If I’m strong enough. It’ll grow back, anyway.”

“Nero.” Vergil is not pleading. He’s not pleading, yet something in his voice sounds like begging.

Nero’s muscles tremble slightly under Vergil’s fingers, cold sweat slickening his loose grasp. He’s terrified and resolute. He’s resolute because he’s terrified. Vergil did the same countless times, cut off whatever made him weak.

A point of similarity. Dante would be happy to hear him admit it. Dread is twisting his stomach, tearing through his muscles – too strong to deny, even for him.

“Do it,” Nero orders. “Come on.”

“I… don’t want to do it.”

The boy clenches his jaw even harder, frustration flaring hot through his eyes.

“You _owe me_.”

He states this with absolute certainty, like Vergil and the universe were bound by the laws of fairness.

Vergil does not want to do this. His repulsion is physical, shameful in its obviousness.

“Vergil!”

Once again, he tears through his son.

_VII – If the boy asked_

This time, Vergil stays.

His son’s arm feels light and limp in his hand. He wants to drop it, but that’d be treating it as the detritus it’s not.

He keeps it. Nero has fallen to his knees, taking in gasping breaths that sound like moans of pain. He’s pale, shivering, pin-like pupils focused on nothing, clutching his stump as it slowly regenerates – white slivers of bones joining together amongst dripping gore. Vergil stands still, uncertainty dug talon-deep in his soul.

“It’s okay,” the boy whispers brokenly to himself. “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay...”

Pain and weakness radiate off him, his ruined limb working at rebuilding itself; the predator in Vergil pants under the human’s quiet horror.

He kneels, too. Touches Nero’s shoulder, uncertain about what he’s doing or why.

“You’re going to be fine,” he says, too, hoping it’ll help if Nero needs to hear it, even if it’s from a man he hates. “You have more than enough strength to bear this. It will be over soon. Your body is already healing itself.”

He’s babbling, saying positive, encouraging nonsense he’d despise any other time, yet suddenly Nero is grabbing him and holding him with demon force. At first, Vergil tenses, expecting an attempt to crush his ribs, but Nero just keeps him in an awkward one-armed embrace.

Vergil hesitates, lost. Tentatively closes his arms around Nero, using his free hand to pat him on the back.

“It’s alright,” he repeats against Nero's short, white hair. What did his mother say to comfort him, back then? Nonsense Nero’s too old for, or soothing words that he’s long forgotten. “You’re strong. You’re getting stronger still. It’s going to be okay.”

_Don’t break the boy_, Dante said.

Is it violating the rule if the boy asked him to?

_VIII – What was not eaten_

Little by little, Nero’s quickened breathing slows against the curve of Vergil's neck. His forehead presses against Vergil’s shoulder, shivers decreasing to painful tremors. His body leans tiredly against Vergil’s, his usual vitality subdued by exhaustion and pain.

He’s smaller than Vergil – and the predator wants to eat him, subdue him, even as long-repressed instincts call for a more intimate embrace, for blood-tasting kisses and warm skin under his palms.

Vergil restrains himself, murmuring reassuring nonsense. He doesn’t feel Dante’s presence nearby; a small comfort.

After a while, a new hand touches the small of his back.

“… Thanks,” Nero whispers sullenly.

Vergil waits for his son to start drawing back before he lets go, rising to his feet. He puts the cut arm down on his table with what he hopes is sufficient care – he doesn’t know what to do with it, really. There’s blood splashed on them both and it’s transformed the floor’s wood panels into a crime scene; the smell of copper and hunger is omnipresent, filling Vergil’s senses.

“Shit,” Nero swears. “Dante’s going to _kill me_. Wow, and your clothes are ruined...”

Vergil shrugs.

“It’ll be fine.”

On a whim, he takes Nero’s freshly regenerated arm. The boy tenses but lets him, eyes sharp as he watches Vergil’s every minute movement.

Vergil traces the lines of newly grown muscles, feeling the soft fuzziness of warm skin. Nero’s wrist is strong, bony, his palm singularly smooth. His fingers are thick with short nails. Vergil make them bend, almost intertwines them with his own.

“What are you doing?”

“Just touching. Does this bother you?”

“N-no...”

Vergil can hear Nero’s uncertainty. It’s pleasant, touching him like this. It helps stifle the urges that he’s trying so hard to quash.

Yet, it would not do to push this too far. Slowly, reluctantly, he lets go.

“Are you satisfied?” He politely asks Nero.

The boy averts his gaze. “I saw Dante regenerate from a torn leg, once. It took seconds.”

“Dante’s older than you.”

Dante may not stay so, though. Vergil remembers finding him as V – beard and hair too short for the length of his sleep. He’s been frozen in time by the Qliphoth blood, just like Vergil.

Maybe he’ll do the same to Nero, when his son is strong and mature enough. This time, he’ll have to find a way that won’t result in too many deaths. They wouldn’t forgive him, otherwise.

Now that Vergil knows what is truly important to him, he’ll protect it properly.

“Yeah, he’s older, but he’s got more demon blood than me, too.”

“It doesn’t mean anything once skills and... determination come into play. Despite his hybrid nature, Dante defeated the pure-blooded Mundus. Despite yours, you fought honorably against me.”

Of course, Vergil will not acknowledge he officially “lost” against Nero. He was tired and rusty, that was all.

Nero gives him the hint of a smile. He looks younger when he relaxes (more vulnerable). Vergil wants to touch his face the same way he touched his hand, to carefully memorize the shape and the feel of it.

“If I’d known that all it took for you to warm up to me was pulling off my arm a second time...”

“I won’t do it again.”

“Yeah, well, I think I prefer beer and casual conversation for father-son bonding time, anyway.”

Vergil smiles slightly.

He wants to touch, embrace, devour. He wants to take, to spread strong thighs and feel Nero’s muscles jump and shiver under his power as he opens him to his desire.

He wants.

“That would be good, yes.”

_Don’t break the boy_.

_Not if he doesn’t want to_.

He will not destroy this.

_IX – What wants to eat_

Dante is away, once again.

Nero has come to his room, once again.

“I want to touch you.”

He tries to sound assured, but there’s something rushed in his tone, like he threw the words out before he could balk.

Vergil raises his eyes from his book and looks at him. Judging by the look on Nero’s face, the boy does not intend to take no for an answer. He crosses his legs, settling more deeply in his armchair – ostentatious ease, faking serenity he’s not sure he feels– and puts his book away on the table, where Nero’s blood permanently stained the wood.

(Nero and Dante decided to keep the arm, as a joke. They’ve let it mummify and pinned it among the demon trophies on the wall. Vergil finds it repugnant.)

“Why?”

Nero’s gaze on him is familiar, now. He’s been watching Vergil since the day he came to live in _Devil May Cry_, after all. At first, it was mostly angry, resentful glares. Sometimes, curiosity, even fascination. Disapprobation, humor, mockery. Lately, though, there’s been something intent in his gaze.

Something predatory.

“Why did you touch my arm?”

This is a good answer, one that Vergil has no counter-objection to.

“Very well.” He nods. “Proceed.”

The boy flushes but sets his jaw and steps forwards, stopping only inches away from Vergil. He kneels in front of his armchair, staring at Vergil as if he was expecting an attack any moment, and reaches out for his lapel.

“I want to take off your vest.”

“Do it, then.”

Nero struggles a little with the straps, blushing as he does, but he manages to open it. Vergil helps him get it past his arm, breath catching slightly at the way Nero’s fingers slide over his skin in the process.

Nero’s eyes on him are still so intense, so focused. The boy gains confidence at his docility, gazing curiously at the thin cotton garment he’s wearing under the vest.

“Why the hell do you have so many layers?”

Vergil could explain to Nero about the disagreement of rough leather and naked skin.

“Because I can,” he answers instead.

Nero opens his mouth and then shuts it, clearly thinking better of voicing that particular thought. A shaking hand brushes Vergil’s arm.

“I’m going to touch you, now.”

Vergil raises his head slightly – a move that bares a little more of his throat, a clear invitation to Nero’s human and demon sides both. He sees the boy’s pupils widen; his cheekbones redden.

Anticipation thrills in Vergil’s veins, heat beading on his skin, twisting his guts. He forces himself to stay completely still, staring at Nero.

“Okay. I-I’m doing it!”

The nervousness in his son’s voice makes Vergil want to seize, bite, taste. He doesn’t, offers himself instead to the trembling fingers that take his hand – manipulate it deliberately before they move to his wrist, thumb pressing slowly on its inside, caressing the lines of the veins here, sending shivers down sensitive nerves.

Vergil is not used to being touched that softly – not used to being touched at all outside of combat, despite Dante, now. The years have branded oversensitivity into his skin and the carefulness – the deliberateness of it makes it worse. He closes his eyes and tries to breathe evenly.

He can feel the weight of Nero’s gaze on him, lighting fire along his nerves. Curious hands take in the shape of his arm, massaging upward.

Vergil squirms, arousal pressing against the leather of his pants. Warms fingers trace the roundness of his shoulder, the line of his collarbones, and stop at the cotton of his top. They pause there, almost waiting. His nerves are tingling everywhere Nero touched him.

Vergil’s aware of the strength with which his free hand is gripping at the armrest and forces himself to let it go. Dante is going to complain yet again if he breaks more of his furniture.

Nero resumes his exploration, this time at Vergil's throat, and he tenses reflexively. His son’s touch stays soft, however, feather-light fingertips brushing against the lines of his arteries and trachea – then upward still, along the angle of his jaw, careful, so careful.

Vergil can hear the shudder of Nero’s breath and it feeds the arousal curling around his insides, tightening his ribs on the irregular beating of his heart.

_Don’t break the boy_. He’s tried to. He’s trying to.

Nero’s hands frame his face, following the curve of his cheekbones, his temples, the arc of his eyebrows – tracing his features with something slow and reverent that Vergil doesn’t know what to name.

Soft, trembling fingers move on his lips, tracing their fullness, and he opens his mouth under the light pressure.

Nero audibly sucks in his breath and recoils as if burned. Vergil looks at him, taking in the wildness in his gaze – the fear.

_Don’t break the boy_. He closes his hands on the armrests so he doesn’t reach out and hears the wood creak.

“Fuck.” Nero’s voice is a wreck of lust and terror. Vergil tilts his head, catches his eyes — pale, unnatural green-blue, so light against black pupils — and holds them captive.

“Finished already?”

He knows the effect of a challenge on his kin. Nero’s growl is both animal and human as the boy lunges at him, grabbing his face for a violent kiss.

It’s rough, awkward, lips smashing and teeth clicking. It’s not a good kiss by any means and yet Vergil drinks it in, clutching at Nero’s skull, digging in short nails.

His son presses closer between his legs, ravenous hands on his neck, shoulders, hips, grasping more than caressing. Sharp teeth bite his mouth and he tastes blood as he sucks on his son’s tongue.

Nero isn’t satisfied with just that and he bites at Vergil’s throat, too, a line of pain on the side of his neck. His impudent boy, taking a mile when he gives him an inch. Vergil growls and grips his nape in retaliation, shaking him slightly – and Nero snarls right back, blunt nails digging into the bone of his hips.

_No breaking _and Nero’s howls of pain when Vergil claws through his back pour liquid fire in his veins. The boy nips harshly at his throat, grabbing his arms with surprising strength.

“_Vergil_.” It’s a call, a curse, a plea, the statement of something so enormous it can only be said in a name. Vergil knows; he’s done it himself. He looks at those wild eyes and the bloodstained lips and this face that is so unlike his, bleeding so much like him.

“Nero,” he breathes against his son’s lips.

The boy kisses him again, a bit slower, a bit deeper. Human, so human.

So hungry.

Vergil indulges, and devours.

_IX – Apple of my eye_

Nero is a taut line of strength and lust against Vergil, his touches eliciting the burn of pain and pleasure both, and Vergil _takes _him, what's his, what he wants, no matter what Nero asks of him in return.

He gives himself first — an offering, a simulacrum of generosity to ask for more later. Nero rushes into it, panting against his shoulder as he tries so desperately to stay good, kind, to prepare Vergil properly. Vergil lets him, loses himself in the scrape of tongue and teeth and lips against overheated nerves and the grind of Nero’s sweaty skin against him. He chases the sharp tangs of pleasure and lust as Nero drives his fingers into him again and again, rougher than he’d wish, probably, keening with need that Vergil drinks like the finest wine.

“I can take it.” A statement, an order. _Hurry up_.

Nero growls, shakes his head, and waits, _makes them both wait _as Vergil snarls his dissatisfaction, clutching and scratching and biting at every inch of him he can reach until _finally _the boy fills him, pain mixed in with pleasure – too deliciously soon, muscles and flesh stretched just beyond the edge of uncomfortable. He clenches hard around Nero’s length, tearing a raw, wounded moan from his son’s throat. Nero’s fingers curl spasmodically on his hips and the boy presses his forehead against his shoulder, struggling for control.

“Nero.”

Nero’s answer is halfway between a whine and a growl. Vergil can feel the enormity of his lust and he drinks it in, calls to him again and again until the boy finally snaps and offers all.

His thrusts are rough, hard, born from thoughtless need, filling him in just the right way – imperfect, avid, eager, caressing sensitive nerves again and again. Breathy moans, curses, swears that would make him seethe in irritation any other time fall from Nero’s lips, and Vergil’s name is interspersed so sweetly in between like a prayer or a cry for help.

Vergil takes, takes, takes as he pretends to give. He touches, kisses, rolls his hips and clenches inside muscles and presses his legs around Nero’s waist, pulling him closer as their sweaty skin slides and slips and awkward hands grasp at him hard enough to leave bruises alongside the electric pleasure of their coupling. It’s not tender, it’s not loving – it’s _need _and teeth sinking again and again into his shoulder until heat spills inside him, Nero riding the height of his orgasm with an almost animal keen.

_Your human couldn’t give you this_, Vergil thinks viciously.

Then he’s slowly pushing Nero against the bed, fake softness in the pressure, and kissing him so very carefully. _No breaking_. Need pulsates under his skin, burning like a madness. The taste of his own blood is still on his tongue, calling for his son’s.

“Can I?”

He’s so very soft. So very considerate. He tries so hard, for Nero’s sake.

Nero looks at him, perfect satiation on his face, then frowns when he sees, on Vergil’s neck, the absence of any lasting bites, any mark washed away by demonic regeneration.

“Do your worst, old man. I can take it.” Nero’s voice is wrecked, panting, but there’s a grin on his kiss-red lips.

Cocky, his son. Unafraid, beautiful, desirable.

Brave, clever and perfect.

His.

This is not love.

There is no love in the way he kisses Nero, bites him, reaches between his legs to press slowly at his sweat-slicked entrance with fingers slick with his spent seed. There is no love in the slow, ravenous impulse of his caresses as he opens the boy up, drinks in the throaty noises Nero makes for him then.

_Don’t break the boy_. Vergil wants to wreck him and taste his tears and blood and yet he doesn’t, holds himself back as Nero’s hips roll with every curl and press of his fingers. _Want, want, want _but he restrains himself because this is different, because he doesn’t want to see fear in these eyes anymore, wants only lust and anticipation to tense Nero’s body against him. _Want _and he finds it, finally, the place which drives growing keens of appreciation from Nero’s lips as the boy learns new pleasure. He waits for the cries, though, before he gives it to him, desperately holding back the beast and the hunger.

Tight, heat shudders around him, Nero stretched out around and under him. Vulnerable, offered, _his _and Vergil’s need beats wildly between his temple. He’s rougher than he intends to be, thrusts too quick and too deep inside, but Nero cries out all the same; pain and pleasure, after all, are incestuous siblings to their bloodline. The sensations are sharp madness; tight, soft heat shuddering and clenching around him, ecstasy breathing down his neck and tingling along his nerves, setting his teeth on edge – but the main thing, ah, the most beautiful thing is seeing _Nero_’s pleasure. Vergil can’t look away, watching him coming undone because of what Vergil is doing: the shiver of his frame, the musky smell of his arousal and the glassiness of his eyes, mouth slack with moans and gasps that grow more vocal every time Vergil buries himself deep inside.

Vergil drives into him ruthlessly, bringing him closer and closer as he keeps the boy’s hands pinned to the sheets. Soon, Nero’s cursing at him, desperate, hips rolling and jerking with need –

He _does _make him cry, in the end.

_X – What was paid for with tears and blood_

Nero’s hands rest on Vergil’s nape, possessive. An adorable show of hubris from his fearless son.

“You healed everything.” Nero sounds almost personally offended.

“So did you.”

Nero’s hand flies to his throat. “Seriously?”

“Alas.”

The taste of Nero’s blood and tears still lingers on his tongue, alcohol-sharp. He’s given him something in return, though; his own blood, easily spilled, and words that he hadn’t entirely meant to utter aloud.

Give and take, a price for each thing freely offered. Absurd, certainly, but desire is absurd, shameful.

And love…

Foolishness whispered in moments of madness.

Vergil rises. His body has already forgotten the aches of the night, marks and tiredness erased both – now a blank slate that belies his mind.

Blood, tears and words. Emotions. The harshest, dearest price – and his name on Nero’s lips like a confession.

It is good that he is a cold, unfeeling bastard, after all. Otherwise, he might do some foolish, dangerous things for his son.

And Vergil is nothing if not a _clever_, cold, unfeeling bastard.


End file.
